


Forest Fire

by postfrom1776



Series: The journey between Paris and London, a FrUk compilation [3]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Forest Fire by Brighton, French Revolution, Historical, History, Human & Country Names Used (Hetalia), M/M, Song Lyrics, World War I, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:14:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25551130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/postfrom1776/pseuds/postfrom1776
Summary: Challenge: Put your playlist on shuffle and write a oneshot based on the first song that comes upSong: Forest Fire by BrightonFandom: Hetalia: Axis PowerShip: France/EnglandEnjoy!
Relationships: (past) France (Hetalia)/Jeanne d'Arc | Joan of Arc, England/France (Hetalia)
Series: The journey between Paris and London, a FrUk compilation [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1830940
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	Forest Fire

  
_When you were young you used to dream about fires_

After Joan of Arc’s death, France never became as close with his people again. He still loved them, they were a part of him, but he could never get the kind of relationship he had had with the Maid of Orléan again.

Their short time together and her tragic demise had reminded the young Nation of an important fact. He was not human. He was going to lose them, each one of them someday, so lets remain unattached, keep a safe distance for his heart.

_And scream into the night_

Oh how he had mourned her, she who had given him back hope, she whose devotion for God and her country were without fault.

He didn’t talk to England for ages after her death, too saddened to even face the one whose people were responsible for her death.

_To find me standing barefoot at your side_

Yet, he knew that it wasn’t Arthur’s fault, and the younger island Nation came to him, after the war. Even in defeat, his enemy crossed the Channel between them and went to apologize. Francis wiped his tears and told him to go away, Arthur stayed.

_I used to whisper it will be alright_

He stayed until Francis was done crying over Joan, he stayed when he was forced to say goodbye to Nouvelle-France and Canada after his cruel defeat of the 7 Years’ War.

_And lay down at your side_

England was there also when he was laying in his destroyed house during the Revolution, mourning his monarch, his people being massacred in the great crimes committed in liberties’ name. He supported this revolution, he guided the mob to the Bastille’s door, but he also let his heart get too close to his queen, hated by her subject, but a person who got thrown in the jaws of history just like Joan.

He supported the ideas of equality, but the burden of seeing young and old getting beheaded in Paris made him hate and love this revolution at the same time.

_And take your tiny hands into mine_

Arthur held his hand when he was feverish and agonising in his bed during the height of the terror. At least until Francis himself got sent to meet Madame Guillotine…

“Guilty of treason against the people of France.” The irony.

_And how was I to know_

The blade was cold, and against the weakened nation, found no resistance. All he could think about before losing consciousness was: Maybe I will see my beloved once lost again...

_I'm not strong_

How wrong was he. He woke up the next day in Arthur’s lap, who was hurriedly sewing him back, needle passing on his flesh as it began to heal. Francis Bonnefoy might have died, but despite the war looming with almost all of Europe and the internal destruction, the Republic stood still.

_I should have saved you and_

-“Stupid french, killing their own Nation, do they have no head!” Arthur was muttering while pulling the needle through, only to be interrupted by a light chuckle coming from the blond French Nation’s lips.

-”C’est ce que fait la guillotine, Angleterre” He weakly said, his usual lush voice reduced to a hoarse whisper.

“Shut up, I’m working, I want to be able to kill you myself, so you better get better so that I can defeat you and your idiotic people once and for all.” the british huffed, continuing his tedious work.

_Oh I hope you know_

-”Merci, Arthur” was all he could say before the other man left him, on the floor with a freshly sewn back head on his shoulder.

-”Mon Dieu, that was going to leave a mark.” He said aloud

It did left a mark, one he hid under collars and scarves for years, and under his Napoleonic uniform as he marched across and beyond Europe, victorious once again.

Until Waterloo, until he couldn’t shoot at Arthur standing right in front of him.

_That you're my home_

He saw in the green eyes the child who had made cornflower crowns with him, the one who had comfort him in his lowest moment and greatest loses, the one who had got him back together when his own people had ripped him apart on the Place de La Révolution.

_But now I'm lost, so lost_

Napoléon lost, France lost, the world moved on. Eventually, his and Artur people began to open their eyes to one another.

Francophiles in England, Anglophiles in France, and increasingly better political climate brought them together for the first time.

L’Entente Cordiale.

Right in time for the Great War.

_I keep imagining those flames that did rise_

Together in the filth and dust of the trenches, dying and standing back up day after day after day beside their men, who were cursed to stay dead in the mud after taking a dozen of bullets.

This was the worst they had ever been through, worst than the guillotine, worst than the great fire of London, than losing Canada and New France, than losing America.

Death everywhere, noise all the time.

Oh lord the noise.

Arthur could took ages to settle back in the quiet of his house afterward, each crash outside or clap of thunder making him jump for months.

And France would call him almost every two day to make sure he was alright. The stupid frog, he was the one with the injured foot, not him.

_And blackened up the sky_

Peace didn’t stay for long, sadly, and the Nations were thrown into yet another war.

But warfare had evolved, and even with his precious Maginot Line, France didn’t stood a chance. One of the first major powers to fall, in less than a year.

_The light that showed you barefoot in the snow_

Arthur remember how he had extended his hand toward Francis in Dunkerque, and that despite wanting to follow him, to catch his opened palm and to stay safe with Belgium, Luxembourg, Poland and Netherland, he couldn’t.

He had to stay with his own people, by their side, with his resistance.

_And then the fire started building up inside_

Letters and message became scarce before completely stopping, and despite De Gaulle’s word of reassurance, trusting his nation with an unwinding faith, England was worried.

In the middle of the Blitz, his body and his people ravaged by bombs, he was worried about France. He was a Nation, of course, but he was working with the Resistance, on sabotage missions against the invader, and his status as The French Republic would not give him any advantages if he was caught…

_Exploding blinding lights_

Arthur and his people held strong across the bombing, and London didn’t fall.

He was needed by everyone to be strong. For the freedom of Europe that he was almost the last defending, for Canada needing his advice, for his people needing their Nation..

And yet he felt like he was the one needing France the most to go through all of this.

_Now I'm the one left screaming through the night_

France managed to survive, along with his people, but just like them, he wasn’t unscattered. Full nights of sleep were absent. His joints were aching and various scratch and burnt mark marred his once perfect skin.

If it would have been a different situation, he would have ran and hid away in shame of his appearance, but he kept walking head up in his cities, looking out for Pétain or his new Vichy government members.

Being divided felt horrible. One day he is whistling La Marseillaise, the other he surprise himself singing Maréchal, nous voilà instead and hate himself for it.

He was with his people, with the Free French army on the other side of the Chanel, with the last bits of truth that rang in the words: Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité…

He wasn’t going to become Germany’s war trophy.

Never.

_And how was I to know_

Arthur was with his two sons on the beach in Normandy, and Francis was with his men of the resistance, derailing trains, sabotaging electric facilities and underground telephone cable.

Even with the now open gash on his left shoulder and his arm on a sling, he kept going, the next target being retrieving his heart.

Paris.

_I'm not strong_

The french government in London had insisted on the Liberation, even symbolic, of Paris, and despite his own general needing a bit more convincing, Arthur knew that he wanted to be there.

_I should have saved you_

He felt that he should have helped Francis earlier, been a better allie for him, so he wanted to make it up to him today.

Alfred and Matthew were there too, along with the Free French Army, coming back for their capital.

_And oh I hope you know_

Seeing his flag finally replaced on the Hôtel de Ville and Notre-Dame made Francis heart beat faster again, like if it just restarted after 4 long year of stillness. He was surrounded by the allied soldiers and by the people of Paris on the Place de la Concorde, and he got a taste of what freedom meant once again.

_That you're my home_

In the thick crowd, Arthur was looking around for the tall, blond haired frenchman he had so much worried about.

Minutes passed, and he caught the eyes of the battered French Nation, and Francis surprised face turned into a smile, a wide smile he hadn’t worn on his bruised and scratched feature since 1940  
 _._  
 _But now I'm lost, so lost_

Arthur walked toward him, pushing the celebrating citizen out of his way toward France, toward Francis.

_I'm gonna carry your bones_

When Arthur finally reached him, Francis opened is still able arm to hold him as close as he could, his injured shoulder and broken ribs be damned.

_I'm gonna carry them all_

-”He is there, he is really there”, Arthur’s brain was constantly repeating as Francis was holding him.

_I'm gonna carry you home_

-”Angleterre..” The soft word was spoken in Arthur’s ear, more akin to a prayer than anything.

_And oh, I'm gonna bury these bones_

The war wasn’t over, but they were together.

_I'm gonna write it in stone_

When the world need to be rebuilt, they stand at each other’s side, united.

_That you were my home, my home_

At home with each other.

At last

_Forget about it_

_Forget about it_

_Forget about it_

_Forget it about_

_How was I to know_

_That you're my home_

_But now I'm lost, so lost_

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this during an afternoon right after finishing to publish The Hopeless that's left when the Romantic Left, and it might have some mistakes, so dont hesitate to point them out or to tell me if you enjoyed in the comments!


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